


Silent Lucidity

by lovedsammy



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Captivity, Depression, Emotional Abuse, Gen, Imprisonment, Manipulation, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovedsammy/pseuds/lovedsammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Felina. He was free of his shackles that had bound him to his captors and mentor alike. His days of imprisonment were over. But now he was trapped in a different kind of a prison, one only he himself had the means to escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Lucidity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Brba Kink Meme on lj:   
> http://brbakinkmeme.livejournal.com/521.html?thread=254729#t254729

Disconcerted laughter and sobs wracked his frame, his entire body shaking as he sped down the highway at break-neck speed, the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance as they emitted from the other direction absolved into breathless, shallow pants. The initial high of euphoria from his first real taste of freedom in almost half a year was depleting, leaving the raw, tangible grief, anger and suffering he’d endured since the first day he’d been kept inside the prison of the Nazi compound. It was all so vividly clear from behind his mind’s eye, like a movie reel on constant repeat, and he squeezed his eyes shut momentarily to block out the incessant images. It felt surreal, like a dream, sitting behind a steering wheel once more, paving the way for his own path, his own choices, with no asshole Nazis, no Walter White, no one, to drive him there.   
  
He was free. Truly, honestly, free. Free. The word kept repeating itself in contrast to the nagging memories as though in a tug of war is his mind and soul, to keep the dam at bay that was trying to burst through, a dam he was only barely managing to contain. Continuing down the darkened road, he thought of the man back at the place that had been in his physical and metaphorical prison. Mr. White, the man who had been the reason for his long-term captivity, who was surely dead by now, killed by his own contraption in an attempt for revenge.   
  
And to save Jesse’s life once more.  
  
Walt had saved him from continued slavery as the Nazis’ prisoner, even if it had been his order that had brought Jesse there in the first place. And though he had made it possible, it was Jesse’s hands, clenched into fists as he wrapped the thick, metal chain around Todd’s neck and choked the life out of him until his neck snapped, that undid his own bounds. He’d walked out of that door, no longer held by anyone or anything, and he’d burst through that gate that had contained him for so long, and it was over, he was out, he was free to do whatever he wanted.  
  
He remembered how he’d leveled the gun at Walter White, ready to pull the trigger, ready to satisfy his own need for revenge. But then he’d seen the mortal wound at Walter’s abdomen, a wound fatal enough that the man would not last very long, and just as Walt had once said before, Jesse had dropped the weapon to the floor, shaking his head. _Let him bleed._   
  
The bastard had been a large part of the reason his life was where it was now. He’d paused just before getting into the car, looking behind him to gaze at the man who he had once looked up to as a father standing obscured in the shadows. The softness on his face surprised Jesse, a look of serene gentleness that spoke too many regrets and the words he’d never really spoken to him before, never really acknowledged, but Jesse had hoped on some level deep down had existed.   
  
A deep, thick swallow, and a nod in recognition, in understanding, and dare he say it a touch of sadness and his own regret that things had gone so wrong between them, had ended so badly, and Jesse Pinkman was speeding away from Walter White, the last shackle that had secured his soul being undone. What was left now was the broken shell of a man he had once been, an identity that seemed almost untruthful to him. He could barely remember who he’d been before now, just some low-time methamphetamine dealer, some junkie who never had been expected to do much in life, a pathetic loser. Then there was the slave, the piece of shit prisoner who was less than a human being, who was nothing, a meaningless entity that his owners had convinced him he was.  
  
Free.   
  
For the first time since he’d burst through the gate, he was terrified. The feet at the gas pedal released slightly, and his focus on escaping as far and fast as he could from his hell lessened. It felt as though his chest were constricting, his heart as though it had been frozen inside a freezer. He felt numb, scared that this was nothing more than a dream and he was back inside the cell, the makeshift prison in a hole in the ground, still cooking, still captive.   
  
It took him a long time to realize he was whimpering. It took even longer to realize that he was reaching a part of Albuquerque that he never wanted to be again, a section so familiar that it was painful now, and he wanted to get the hell away from here as fast as possible, but he kept driving, letting his body lead the way while his mind tried to reel from the reality that was threatening to close in. Moments – or maybe it was hours; time seemed unimportant to him now – later, he was turning the street leading to Walter White’s house, not knowing why he’d chosen to lead himself here. One last look, for old time’s sake? Though what would that grant him now, except the forced entry of memories he’d rather forget? But then he remembered, remembered the words Walt had spoken to him long ago, what felt like years now.   
  
_“I can trust you to...”_  
  
 _“Yeah. Whatever happens, your family will get your share.”_  
  
That conversation seemed a lifetime away, and though it no longer mattered, it no longer could come to pass, because Jesse had no money to give the man’s family, had no obligation to do so anymore. That obligation had been destroyed right along with what ever relationship had existed between them. But something, some sense of loyalty, or maybe it was just purely decency, told him to let them know, because surely they would want to, wouldn’t they? That Walter White was dead, that the man who had gone into this to secure his family’s future had gone out with only his ego and pride in his final moments with one last act of redemption in saving Jesse’s life?  
  
He readied himself, not even knowing what he could possibly say to the family of the man he hated, a family which hadn’t taken kindly to him either. Skyler – that was her name, wasn’t it? – would likely just kick him off of her property, likely threaten to call the cops, and he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the kid, the son, to tell him what his dad had become. But as he pulled up in front of the house to meet another, tall, impenetrable gate, he froze.  
  
Littered along the fence was a large sign reading ‘keep out’ and other crap about being owned by the federal government, having been acclaimed under seizure. The family no longer lived there. No one did. The stillness of the silent street awoke him from his trance-like state, and he shuddered against the cold from the New Mexico night air. His senses were urging him to get the hell out of dodge quickly, out of this town, out of this state, and never look back, but beyond his rationale, there was a longing, a longing to be somewhere other than a cramped car having just been an escapee of a gang of Nazis. Even if it was here, the likelihood of the police showing up were slim to none. The house wasn’t important now; they had the man.   
  
He put the car in stationary parking along the curb and slowly exited the vehicle, thin frame still shuddering from the pain and cold his body was still emitting. As quietly as he could, he shut the car door, making his way stealthily, if not weakly, through the gaping hole in the fence, and strolled the front yard leading to the house’s entryway.   
  
The door had been replaced, he noticed. Not that it mattered; Walt had been a millionaire at the time, and one kicked-in, damaged door had been easy to replace. The fractured, damaged psyche of his ex-partner and the irreversible damage he’d caused him hadn’t been as easy. Cold breaths escaped him as he easily opened the unlocked door and shut it behind him.   
  
The darkness wasn’t comforting, wasn’t doing much good for the visions in his head, but it would suffice. It’s just for the night, he encouraged himself. Just for the night. He had nowhere else to go, nowhere that he could get to just yet. His house was certainly being watched, and he couldn’t go to Andrea’s, not after what had happened, and his parents were out of the equation. This was the only place left.   
                                      
Pacing the destroyed living room, he saw that all the furniture had been removed, and boards and pieces of the woodwork were lying scattered all about the room. Whoever had taken the place had done a number on it, had practically ransacked it. He was just about to tempt himself to find a place to lie down when his eyes drifted to the main wall, to a brightened outline that was different from the rest of the paint coated on the wall, in small sections. Spray paint. He squinted, having got used to the darkness after the last six months, and was barely able to make out the word on the wall, his breath catching in his throat: Heisenberg.   
  
This was no longer Heisenberg’s domain. Heisenberg himself was gone, dead. Jesse was sure of that. Soon, the world would know – hell, maybe it already knew. The empire, the vast legend the man had spend building up – it had all crumbled, self-destructed. It was over.   
  
It was all over.  
  
Finally, he felt the thin stretch of fabric below his feet and bent down to run a hand across it. It was part of the carpeting, and while not very comfortable, it would provide a lot better as a form of bed than the padded cot he’d been allowed to sleep on in the prison. Anything was better than there. He winced as he curled in on himself, only coming to realize just how badly in shape his body was.   
  
Every muscle, every part of him, was aching, had been aching for as long as he could remember now. What light was allowed to seep into the house from a hole atop the ceiling reflected off a small, cracked mirror on the wall beside him, and he raised his head to gaze at his own reflection. He could barely recognize himself; he looked older, weary, thinned, sickly. His face was decorated in cuts and scars that had not healed or ever really faded and likely never would. His hair, grown back out, was greasy and unkempt, his scruff requiring shaving. The clothes on his body were dirty and loose-fitting from prolonged use, though the cuffs of the shirt and pants were tighter around him from where the chains and shackles had been clasped around him for however long he had been held prisoner.   
  
He never knew what day it was, had been unable to keep count long ago, but he knew by the time he stopped counting on his hands six times over that it had been over a month. Far longer. Three, four, five. Perhaps even six. Or maybe an entire year had passed – it surely felt that way now. And Walt, when he’d shown up at the compound, looked sickly and dying even as he stood in front of him with a full head of hair that meant that the chemo hadn’t deteriorated him completely yet.   
  
After assuaging his image, he curled back onto the carpentry, curling in on himself as he tried to find the most comfortable position he could manage. He was dying to get the clothes on his back off of him, and his stomach growled loudly and painfully demanding food, and his throat water, and god knew he was in the need of a bath or shower badly, but right now, he was content with listening to the sound of crickets in the nighttime air and fully able to appreciate it.   
  
Tears, unbidden, though he didn’t try to stop him, formed at the rims of his eyes and dripped sorely down his stinging face from the still-fresh cuts, and he hiccuped, not even bothering to keep quiet as the dam, at last, broke completely. Then he was wailing, sobbing, gripping the fabric of the carpet so hard his fingernails were curling in on his fists with discomfort. No one was going to hear him and come and kick him in the ribs, or beat him until he was black and blue and his ribs were cracked. No one was going to come collect him in the morning for another hellish day of cooking, no constraints were going to be around his hands and feet and no threat of death hang over his head, no Mr. White to manipulate and abuse him anymore.   
  
Yet, somehow, he found that scared him more than anything. With his freedom had come the chance at making his own decisions, decisions he didn’t trust himself to make, not right now, not ever. He needed someone to lead him by the hand and take him to the safest direction, but more than ever, he felt he needed to push all offending hands away, hands that could lead him back into Hell. That was where this had landed him, alone, broken, and afraid, left with nowhere and nothing to turn to except for his own mind to seek such solace and decision. He’d broken free of his prison, but now he was left to seek comfort in the one inside himself, the one he knew, only with time, would he ever be properly able to escape from.   
  
Jesse closed his eyes as the last of his cries left him exhausted and drained, allowing the peace of sleep to wash over him. He dreamt of a prison cell, a cell that held him in place and was surrounded by Nazis, by blue crystal and Walter White. A cell that was escapable, far more escapable than the physical prison that had contained him for those many months. He held the keys; but shaking fingers trembled, and he submerged back into the darkness, unable to turn them. Maybe, he thinks, tomorrow he could.


End file.
